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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25095316">reduce reuse recycle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avonya/pseuds/Avonya'>Avonya</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Minor Character Death, au where Martin worked at a thrift store right before the Magnus institute, but I’m American so there might be culture differences, but actually not as spooky, but actually not as violent, canon-typical cursed books, canon-typical spooks, this is a thrift store fic written by someone who has actually worked at a thrift store, thrift store fic, various entities being vaguely spooky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:41:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,275</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25095316</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avonya/pseuds/Avonya</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Thrift! Cheap! had been a pretty good job, actually. Martin had some good coworkers and a very good employee discount. The excitement over rare items hadn’t yet faded, either. </p>
<p>They had all been so excited about one of the books that had been donated. Could anyone have predicted that something from the library of Jurgen Leitner have so many negative side effects? </p>
<p>(Yes. Many people.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>reduce reuse recycle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I worked at a thrift store last summer and sometimes it could get spooky! Many of the things that happen here are at least inspired by something that actually happened while I was working. Enjoy the fic!</p>
<p>(The Latin for the leitner title is google translated and likely very wrong)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was raining when Martin entered the Thrift! Cheap! store. He had already worked there for going on half a year at that point, and so neither the rain or the entrance felt any different </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thrift! Cheap! was a good store to work at in the grand scheme of things. The management was much better than any of the fast food restaurants he had worked at and the employee discount was fairly substantial. As it stood, almost all of Martin’s new clothes were from Thrift! Cheap!. It was very useful to be able to look for the things he needed and work at the same time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Martin!” His coworker Lucy grabbed him almost as soon as he had taken off his raincoat and stuck his umbrella in the bin in the employee’s only section of the store. “We found something exciting!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucy put up with a lot of the things that even Martin didn’t like about himself. When he didn’t want to talk she filled the space with cheerful chatter and when he did want to talk she gamely engaged in conversation. Overall, Martin liked Lucy a lot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?” He asked. “Which section?” He hung up his coat, stashed his bag, and pulled on his name tag. All of the walkie talkies were gone, which was strange but not immediately off putting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though, looking back on it, Martin didn’t know why he didn’t ask where they had gone. It wasn’t a particularly busy day, just an average rainy Tuesday morning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>‘We found something exciting’ can mean practically anything at a secondhand store. Expensive clothing, strange clothing, actual gold jewelry, real diamond rings. Once they even got someone’s ashes. The urn they were in wasn’t particularly un-urnlike, so Martin had no idea why the slip up happened. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harry’s,” Lucy told him gleefully. Harry was the head of the books section and spent most of his days in his cramped corner of the back room, sorting through boxes and boxes of donated books, proclaiming some of them trash, some of them good enough to sell. “We think it might be </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> old, though we haven’t gotten a historian in yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Martin said, and smiled. “Lead the way!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Old books were </span>
  <em>
    <span>exciting</span>
  </em>
  <span>, in a cool antique way, which was very different from a normal antique way, which just meant beat up wooden furniture with so many grooves you’d have to spend a day dusting the damn thing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucy flung open the double doors to the back room and strode in, not looking back to check if Martin was following. That was just the kind of person she was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harry!” She called, not bothering to wait until he was in view. She and Martin ducked around stacks of electronics, misplaced household wares, and overflowed clothes. The clothing intake pile was far too full, something Martin frowned at— clothing intake had become his main position after the last one quit. He needed to deal with that, and soon. He couldn’t lose the Thrift! Cheap! job. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucy!” Harry called back, but didn’t say anything else until Martin and Lucy came into view. Books were stacked around him like he had stopped sorting after finding The Book, as Martin mentally called it. “Ah, Martin! Good to see you. Check </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>out,” Harry brandished the book towards Martin, who tentatively took it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The book was definitely old, though it didn't look too damaged. Smooth brown something, maybe leather, was the main feature of the cover, but threaded in what looked like silver was a spider web pattern. Really gorgeous, actually. The title was something in Latin, ‘texente tela historia,’ whatever that meant. </span>
</p>
<p>“Weaver’s Tale,” Harry said excitedly. “Or Weaver’s Story. Haven’t really needed Latin in a while.”</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin had never studied Latin so he simply nodded and opened the book. The inside cover had a silver bookplate proclaiming the Weaver’s Tale to be from the library of Jurgen Leitner, whoever that was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The book was rather long and looked to be entirely in Latin, which actually disappointed Martin. He liked spiders, after all, a very important part of the ecosystem, and the Weaver’s Tale seemed to very clearly be about spiders. There were a couple illustrations but not big formal ones, more like someone had just doodled in the book: little spiders that poked around blocks of text with curious eyes and waving arms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin handed the book back to Harry. “Are you going to call the museums?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I’ll try to translate it first,” he said, already sitting back down at his desk. The pages covering it made a lot more sense once Martin realized that it was Latin he was trying to translate. The pages were covered in sections copied from the book. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To see if that helps you identify it?” Lucy asked, peering over his shoulder. “I took French, so no help here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that,” Harry said faintly. Lost in his work already. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucy looked at Martin, and Martin looked at Lucy, and they both shrugged and went off to their sections. Martin grabbed a disposable mask and a pair of plastic gloves before he really started work in earnest, though. Sometimes people donated really nasty things. Lucy didn’t need to kit up quite as much as Martin did as she was just tagging the goods that had already been declared sellable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the day went by much as most days did. Martin found a cool vintage dress, which was good, and a couple high end shirts, which was also good. He put them aside for Patricia, the fashion major who worked weird hours and sometimes brought her kid with her during vacations. Patty was especially good at pricing things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He also found a pair of shoes that were more dirty rags than footwear and a bag of jeans that all were missing the crotch. Martin scoffed. Who expected them to put that trash out? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Could be good mending denim, though. He’d have to wash them but the jeans themselves had once been fairly good quality. Martin put them aside to take for later. They weren’t free, but the deal that employees got for the stuff that couldn’t be sold was far cheaper than buying a yard of denim would be and </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> cheaper than buying new jeans. </span>
</p>
<p>Near his lunch break he heard a disgusted shout from Lucy’s corner of the back room and went to go have a look. When he rounded the corner of the household goods section he found her standing about a foot away from a dented metal box. </p>
<p>
  <span>“You alright?” Martin asked, searching her face for any signs of… danger, he supposed, though it wasn’t like something would have just </span>
  <em>
    <span>sprung out </span>
  </em>
  <span>at her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well. Excluding that bird that one time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just… </span>
  <em>
    <span>filth</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Lucy said, pointing down at the box. When Martin got closer he could see that the box was open, just slightly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Another chewing tobacco set?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucy shook her head hard enough for her curly hair to fail from her bun. “No, it’s… it’s just </span>
  <em>
    <span>filth</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well then,” Martin looked down at the box. The smell was starting to reach him, musty and old and like milk gone off.  It wasn’t like they could call a janitor for it— they all took turns cleaning. “Was this already okayed?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucy nodded. “Alexis did. She’s normally been so good at this, I don’t know why she would have just,” she tapered off and pointed vigorously at the vile box. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin sighed. “Well, let’s… hm. Let’s try to close it and then triple bag it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucy frowned before nodding. She got her own pair of gloves on and then they played a fun game called ‘who’s thrown rock can close it first?’</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin’s did, which was fun, which meant that Lucy was the one who bagged it. She stuck her gloves in the last layer of plastic, and, after a moment, so did Martin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s it, then,” Lucy said, looking down at their work. “Ugh. Can’t believe people donate this shit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin laughed, and nodded, and that was that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<ul>

</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next day, an equally rainy Wednesday, Martin found one of the missing walkie talkies stuffed down the side of the clothing intake bin. And it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>on. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucy?” Martin called. She hadn’t come to greet him. “Did you do this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” She popped her head around the corner, a tacky faux-gold cherub in her gloves hands. She saw where he was pointing and shook her head. “No, but Alice might know? I think I saw her messing with them yesterday. Harry, you see anything?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No response. Martin and Lucy shared a concerned look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll go check on him,” Martin said, not quite as brightly as he wanted. “Harry, have you been buried in books again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still no answer. Harry didn’t even look up when Martin stepped into his little book zone and cleared his throat as loudly as possible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It didn’t really look like Harry had slept, was the thing. He was hunched over his translations, eyes going almost frantically from book to paper even while his hand moved smoothly, his script clear and dancing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harry?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Busy, Blackwood.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harry, have you… left?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The books stacked around him were placed just as they had been the day before. The only thing that looked different were Harry’s translations. Martin looked away from them and back to Harry’s salow face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Martin, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>working</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Harry snapped. “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>important that I finish this. I can’t stop.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have you even called any museums?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Martin,” Harry said. “Go back to work, Martin,” Harry said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Martin did. Lucy was waiting for him anxiously, her face creased in concern from the conversation that she had overheard. </span>
</p>
<p>“That felt wrong, yeah?”</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Martin said automatically, then paused. “Though maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>we </span>
  </em>
  <span>should call someone? I mean, we can’t keep this book forever. It has to get priced,” he reasoned, “and it can’t get priced unless Harry prices it and he’s not going to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do we… tell Susanna?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Susanna was their manager, a cheerful old woman who always wore a cowboy hat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not yet?” Martin said, not quite as determined as he would have liked. “What do you think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I say we leave him be,” came a dreamy voice. Both Martin and Lucy startled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Had Alice been standing behind them the entire time? That was weird, right?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I say we see this through,” she added. She had a walkie talkie clipped into her belt and it squealed, suddenly, shrieking with feedback. Alice didn’t react. </span>
</p>
<p>Martin and Lucy slowly turned back to the walkie talkie still embedded in the pile of clothing. So it was listening, then.</p>
<p>“Alright,” Lucy said. </p>
<p>
  <span>Alice smiled and it was—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>weird</span>
  </em>
  <span>, okay, because her mouth was vague but her eyes were sharp like half of her was asleep and the other half was eternally awake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great,” Alice said, and walked backwards all the way to electronics. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucy grabbed Martin on his lunch break to whisper, “something’s not right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin nodded. Not much more to say. “Do we… do anything?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s there to do?” She asked, hands spread wide. Lucy sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Get another job? Call those Magnus Institute weirdos? I had a cousin that went there once and they said it didn’t help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get a job at the Magnus Institute?” Martin joked and was relieved to see Lucy laugh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright, how about you tell me how your interview goes without a PhD in spooky bullshit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin laughed, but the mood tapered out there. They ate the rest of their lunches together in silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin found a shirt that said “she wants the (Ph)D” though, so that was something. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<ul>

</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Thursday brought sun and the creepiest fucking dress form Martin had ever seen— ratty foam bound with rusted steel bands. There was even a head on it, which from Martin’s experience wasn’t especially common. The head was equally as horrific: there was a gaping </span>
  <em>
    <span>mouth </span>
  </em>
  <span>carved into it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It has </span>
  <em>
    <span>teeth</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Martin exclaimed, pointing with both hands. “What the actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Patty looked up from her stack of designer dresses with missing zippers and frowned. “Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>yikes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Martin. How’d that get in there? Not like we can sell it, it looks… stained.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It did. “Looks like we should </span>
  <em>
    <span>burn</span>
  </em>
  <span> it,” Martin said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucy, who refused to get closer than an arm’s length from the thing, nodded vehemently. “Do we call Susanna for that? Or can we just do it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think we should keep it,” Alice piped up, her words marked by more radio feedback. “I mean, look at it! That’ll sell. People love that vintage look.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It looks like it’s from a crack house, Alice,” Lucy said. Martin quietly wondered how the fuck the dress form was a “vintage look.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harry, any input?” He asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No response beyond the steady scratch of his pen, but they had kind of been getting used to that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of the other staff were out on the shop floor stocking shelves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Three to one says burn it,” Patty declared. “And as acting manager for this shift I will take any of the shit that comes down on us for it. You two got fifteen minutes?”</span>
</p>
<p>Martin looked at Lucy, Lucy looked at Martin, and both nodded. </p>
<p>
  <span>Lunch that day was takeaway, something Martin normally tried to avoid, but since the fridge had, for some reason, turned off, Patty made it her treat. Especially considering his help in burning the dress form. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The takeaway twisted in his stomach when Martin got back to the break room, though— something had gone off in the fridge very quickly. Must have been on the brink when the fridge died, then. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin slapped a sticky note over the door that read “clean up after yourself, seriously!” And that was that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<ul>

</ul>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Everything came to a head on Friday. It was a nice Friday, actually, not too hot, not too windy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thrift! Cheap! felt wrong, though. The entire break room stank something rancid (did no one read his note?), all the bathrooms were too cold and full of smoke (teens and their vapes!), clothing intake was suffocatingly full (had an entire family moved and donated everything?), and the lights in furniture storage wouldn’t turn on at all (old building!).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin was refreshing the racks of clothes out in the store proper, though, so at least he didn’t have to deal with that, and Lucy was working the register. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m seriously thinking of handing in my resignation,” she confided during a quiet moment. Thrift! Cheap! was both surprisingly busy that Friday and strangely empty, alternating between far too many people and practically just the employees. “I just can’t work with Alice anymore, and have you seen what Thom wrote on that antique table?” She shivered, and exaggerated or not Martin fully felt it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So depressing,” he agreed. “What is ‘Terminus comes for all’ supposed to mean, anyway?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t,” Lucy began, but trailed off, eyes locked on a rather large spider that had crawled over the screen of the register. “Can you get that? Spiders freak me out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re important organisms,” Martin said, glad for anything that wasn’t the absolute horror show that Thrift! Cheap! had become. He scooped the spider up with a forgotten receipt and carried it out, depositing it gently on the sidewalk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There you go,” he encouraged. “Go on, catch some bugs.” He chuckled. “Maybe I should put you in the break room, then. Whatever’s in the fridge is attracting flies. I think it’s Ellie’s, she’s always bringing in weird meats, I bet she didn’t notice the fridge break.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The spider seemed to wait while he spoke before bobbing slightly and skittering off. A feeling of something that wasn’t quite safety but also definitely a reprieve settled over him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Things would be okay. Martin would work at Thrift! Cheap! while he looked for a new job and then he would quit. Maybe all the weird stuff would just sort itself out! </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d need a raise to stay much longer, though. London was expensive and paying for his mother left him just barely scraping by. Discount jeans can’t pay for rent, after all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Until then, well. There was a neon yellow tank top in his size that said in bold letters “Legalize Gay!” which would be fun. A bit of a splurge in the sense that Martin wasn’t sure when to wear it, especially considering that gay marriage was legalized. It would still be fun. A fun little treat to remind him of the fun parts of working at a thrift shop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin took a deep breath, steadied himself, and went back inside. At least it wasn’t McDonald’s, he reminded himself, as he waved to Lucy on his way back to the racks he was refreshing. Or that terrible cafe where the management took all the baristas tips and never taught him how to use the milk frother. Or the—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excuse me, young man,” a stern faced older woman interrupted his meditations. “You work here. You work in clothing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin didn't say that while everyone had specific sections they normally worked in, no one was specifically one forever. He didn’t, because that wasn’t what the woman was looking for, and smiled. He put on his customer service voice and face. “I do! How can I help you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman’s face twisted with sudden rage and she pointed towards one of the changing rooms. The curtain had been torn open and some of the clasps that shut it were scattered over the floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin frowned. He had just cleaned that room and it had taken a good while! Whoever had been inside it had been terrible; they left clothes all over the floor, rather than on the return rack </span>
  <em>
    <span>directly outside the changing booth</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Some articles of clothing had been stuffed behind the small stool and little table inside the booth, and some others had been ripped around the edges in places Martin had known that they weren’t when he put them out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Someone put away my shopping,” the woman said, slowly, murderously. Her face began to go red with fury. “Someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>stole </span>
  </em>
  <span>my </span>
  <em>
    <span>shopping</span>
  </em>
  <span> from me!” She screamed, before </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurtling herself at Martin. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>Martin screamed, Lucy screamed, everyone was screaming. The woman was going for his face, trying to scratch him with her long nails while Martin desperately tried to get her off him. There were probably rules against assaulting customers but fuck it. He kicked her as hard as he could in the stomach and she gasped, falling backwards off him. Lucy had come up on them while Martin and the woman had been fighting and stood directly over where the woman had fallen. She had the long wooden baseball bat that was generally kept under the register clutched tightly in her hands. </p>
<p>Well. Susanna had always said it was for emergencies. </p>
<p>The customer growled and lunged for Lucy’s knees. Lucy screamed again and swung the bat down on her, once, twice, three times, until blood splattered the three of them and the customer stopped moving. </p>
<p>
  <span>Lucy gripped the bat with white knuckles and wide eyes. There was blood on her face, there was blood on her hands, there was blood on the bat. “What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she whispered, “what the FUCK is happening?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin looked down at the customer. Ex customer? “Is she…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know! I don’t know if I want to know! Holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, did I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bell over the front door rang cheerfully. Martin spun around to face it and tried to find the words for ‘something bad is happening here but you shouldn’t report this possible murder until we know what’ before he stopped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man that had entered was tall and wearing all black. A goth, then, because that was great. The beginning of a joke? A goth walks into a retail crime scene and says—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi,” the man said before Martin could finish his half-hysterical (and not, unfortunately, the fun hysterical) joke. The man came closer, looked down on the fallen woman. He had an eye done in marker over his throat, Martin noticed, and when he took his hand out of his pocket Martin saw that different eyes  were written on all the joints on his hand. Trying out styles, maybe? “My name is Gerard. I’m here for a book?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Closed,” Martin said. “We’re closed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The goth— Gerard—  smiled. “I’m not looking to buy it. I’m looking to destroy it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Will that help?” Martin asked. He looked at Lucy. Lucy did not look back, just kept staring at the crumpled woman beneath her, the blood on the old wood bat. “Will that help whatever’s happening here?”</span>
</p>
<p>“No promises. But it should.”</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin knew exactly what book Gerard was talking about. He stood and nodded. “Fine. Follow me. Lucy, I’ll be back, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nodded slowly, stunned, and didn’t speak. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gerard smiled and nodded back. Martin led him through the flickering lights of half destroyed aisles, most showing signs of a fight. Had the woman that Lucy had hopefully-not-killed done all of that or had more customers gone mad? Had all the damage been done during his own fight or had he just not noticed?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whatever it was, the strange man didn’t comment. Martin led him into the employee only area, passed the stinking fridge, and into the backroom, where he finally paused. </span>
</p>
<p>“Do you know if it’s safe?”</p>
<p>
  <span>Gerard looked around with interest. “We’ll see. You should be safe with me, though, just keep close.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Martin said. ‘Keep close,’ he thought, like he wasn’t the one who needed to lead Gerard to the book. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gave electronics a wide berth. He could, very faintly, hear Alice moving around in there, shifting things and tapping on keys. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here,” Martin whispered, at the entrance of Harry’s book zone. “It’s in here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay close,” Gerard said again, but stepped in front. He walked in carefully but confidently, shoulders back and proud, but paused. “What did you say your name was?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Martin?” He said. “And I didn’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great,” Gerard said. Martin could see the edges of Harry not covered by Gerard and his long black coat.  “Turn around, Martin. Don’t leave, but don’t look.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Will it get me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Gerard said, before stepping further into the little alcove formed by the stacks and boxes of books. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a light source in front of them, Martin realized, one that cast its shadow on the back wall. Martin could see the shadows of Gerard and Harry like a grotesque shadow puppet show. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry was—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was something—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was something like strings, in Harry’s shadow, attached to his fingers, wrists, elbows, all his joints. Like a puppet from a puppet show. Gerard stepped closer to whatever had taken over Harry and leaned over his desk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is it,” he said grimly. “Alright, now. Stop that. What’s this even supposed to be?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bind them together,” Harry said, in a voice that was not Harry’s but might have once been. Martin found himself very glad that he wasn’t looking. “Weave them together in inseparable unity.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, no thanks,” Gerard said. He leaned over Harry, their shadows mixing on the wall, and took the book from him. Gerard snapped it shut, the sound like a gunshot in the relative silence of the room. From what Martin could see of Harry’s shadow, in the places where Gerard’s didn’t cover it, Harry had gone limp. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Behind Martin it sounded like Gerard was gathering papers— Harry’s translations, likely. He searched for another moment or two before nodding to himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think I got it all,” Gerard said. “Any metal wastebaskets?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“One under his desk,” Martin said. “Is it safe to turn around?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin turned and saw—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, Harry. Collapsed over his desk, covered in little red marks. He looked absolutely exhausted but his chest rose and fell like it should. Martin was too exhausted to go to him, though. The dark feeling that had settled over Thrift! Cheap! had lifted, at least partially, and he was just tired. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin watched Gerard toss the papers into the bin and light them. He waited for a good enough for to get started, until the translations were just ash, before he lit the corner of Weaver’s Tale with his lighter and dropped it on top. It burned fast, probably faster than a book should normally burn, though of all the things Martin had done, burning books was not one of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The quiet sounds of Alice’s typing stopped suddenly, as did the faint radio static.  They were replaced with a startled gasp and the beginnings of crying. There had been movement in the household section, barely noticeable, and it stopped too. Someone, probably Alexis, garbled something and vomited. Martin winced. </span>
</p>
<p>“Alright,” Gerard said, once the book was truly burned, once the feeling had lifted completely. Thrift! Cheap! was, apparently, safe again, though Martin never wanted to come back. “Well. That’s it, then.”</p>
<p>“Will the others be okay?”</p>
<p>
  <span>Gerard visibly thought about it. He looked at the shelf behind which Alice was hidden, crying, to the shelf that Alexis was likely crumpled behind. He shrugged. “Probably? Woman up front’s dead, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What am I supposed to do about that?” Martin exclaimed, his indignation replacing his gratitude for a moment. “Go to jail for </span>
  <em>
    <span>murder?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gerard waved off his complaints. “I’ll call someone. It’ll get dealt with. You should probably start thinking of alternative employment, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin laughed at that before dissolving into hysterics. Yeah, alternative employment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time to get a PhD in spooky, he supposed, or at least a good enough impression of one. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comment! I love them! And if you donate things to a second hand store wash them and check them for holes first, holy shit!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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